


Day Collar

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Collars, Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Fluff, Post-Game(s), Spoilers, lifestyle d/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 01:38:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: Aranea presents her loyal sub with a gift after his hard-fought battles. Entirely plotless, fluffy minific.





	Day Collar

“Jewelry? Sentimental for you,  _ dear _ ,” Ignis smiles when he speaks, despite his inclination to tease. The cool steel against his throat is comforting in its own way. There’s a weight there, a certain presence that he appreciates just as soon as Aranea has it slipped around his neck. He lifts his fingers to properly observe the band, to take in the feeling on his skin, to feel out the shape and form an image in his mind. It isn’t a chain so much as it is thick, firm metal cord. The diameter is fine, enough that the firm quality of the work would be imperceptible to the casual onlooker. At the center, where it lies near flush at the dip in his collar, the band splits to a small, sharp-edged circle, caught and continued at the opposite apex.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Aranea’s voice is sharp but carries, as it tends to, a hint of affection. They’ve been playing this game for some time now, since a time when he might have simply glanced downward to take stock of the gift. A lifetime or two has passed since then, years of darkness broken into dawn for a good few weeks by now. Good, actually, is a bit of a relative term, and not one Ignis is sure he wants to use to categorize the aftermath. He’s dwelling on details again, a pesky habit that’s only grown over the years. He focuses, instead, on the weight against his throat, the warmth of Aranea’s knuckles at the back of his neck while she adjusts, the tone in her voice when she makes her intent perfectly clear, “I’m only safeguarding my property.”

Ignis makes an attempt to cut his smile short, to appear as though he’s been properly chastised. He is, of course, perfectly aware of what presses against a pulse slightly quickened by the very implication. It’s no fun if he’s  _ entirely  _ behaved, though. He craves her punishment and he will do well enough to earn it. So his lips remain curled at the edges and a hint of a chuckle presses from beneath the silver band when he hears the telltale  _ click  _ of a lock beneath Aranea’s fingers. This is nothing less than a sign of absolute possession, one that he had assented to some time ago. One that he had assumed forgotten in the aftermath of those final battles, when there had been such question as to whether any of them would see- figuratively speaking, of course- the light they’d fought for.

“Afraid of thieves in the daylight? I should think your  _ property  _ was more at risk under cover of night,” there is a certain thrill there for Ignis, referring even to himself as little more than an object. More has passed between them than this, and the symbolism stretches far beyond a sharp heel against his sternum or a hand expertly bruising the flesh beneath the discreet collar, and that is thrilling too. This, though, is part of their play. This is part of what came so easily and naturally to them, with all their banter between and the faux struggles for power. Ignis  _ adores  _ Aranea, but it is far easier to admit he adores what she does to him on the most basic levels.

A silence falls between them. Near-silence, specifically. He hears, feels Aranea shifting from behind him in the bed. He leans back, braces his hands behind him to open up his lap. No words follow immediately, but she settles in there and she fixes her fingers against the symbolic steel, already warming to his skin. This is a comforting weight as well, the one across his thighs, pressing far closer than necessary. The silences between them are rarely uncomfortable and this one only barely counts as an exception. Ignis is, as always, internally filling in the blanks. There’s reason behind all of Aranea’s decisions and there’s thought behind her words. There’s thought, in this case, behind her silence. Ignis hones in on it, focuses on a sense of uncertainty, a hesitation.

She wants to play but she doesn’t want to hurt him- not in the way that ill-advised words are apt to hurt. He considers telling her that he can take it, but she knows that. She’s making a conscious decision, something he’ll respect even if there is a moment’s frustration for the coddling. And, he reminds himself, all of this is only his assumption. He knows Aranea well, has enough years at her side under his belt that he probably knows her nearly as well as he knows himself, but he isn’t particularly skilled in telepathy and no good will come from projecting his own feelings.

“And  _ I  _ should think he’d learn to hold his tongue by now. Seems we’re both mistaken,” she’s smiling when she finally breaks that silence, Ignis is sure of it. He can hear it in the way she forms her words, still sharp at the edges but with a particular sort of warmth, an accent on this syllable or that, betraying her expression. He mirrors it, if only to work up a bit of her ire, and he dips his head forward, catches those smiling lips before she has a chance to arrange her expression back to neutrality. He decides it’s a far better use of his tongue in any case, to slide it against the plush of her lip, coax her mouth open to him. He interprets the way her hands shift to clutch at his shoulders, just a bit too tight for comfort, as agreement to that end.

 “My apologies,” Ignis says the words with his lips still brushing against Aranea’s and every indication in the world that he is very far from sorry. The words draw out a sound of disapproval, but only a brief one, more for show than actual annoyance. Another smile tugs at his lips and he presses on, straightens himself, gets his hands over the soft warmth of her thighs, “I only mean to say,” he circles his thumbs against the insides of her thighs, eases upward with an easy, natural motion, “that I can’t imagine any cause for concern. Your possession is perfectly secure.”

 This game is, on so many levels, one they have been playing for longer than Ignis can say. The words are careful and deliberate. Confessions slip through concealed, meanings topped upon meanings. They could be overt, Ignis thinks, without much trouble. They could admit overwhelming love and affection, a desire to commit entirely to one another. Simply saying it, though, where’s the fun in that? Actions, in any case, speak louder; Ignis’s actions have been screaming his dedication for years. And now, without the easy old alliances, without any liege to serve whole-heartedly, to sacrifice himself to and for at a moment’s notice, that dedication is becoming quickly singular. And _that_ is what Aranea won’t quite bring herself to say. _That_ is, by Ignis’s estimation, the truth in the timing.

 “That is, assuming you don’t simply wish to show off your trophy,” Ignis doesn’t bother to brace himself, nor does he resist. Aranea pushes him down, firm if not quite violent, to the mattress. Her hands pin back to his shoulders at once, her weight supported easily where she is crouched over him. He can feel her breath on his face, predatory heat. He invites the turn, the sharp left away from that delicate line between their lustful play and any actual admission of adoration. It breaks a tension he hadn’t entirely been aware was rising. He’s still smiling. She’ll be sure to wipe that from his face.

 “You just want me to make you regret the back talk,” she recognizes his game immediately. Ignis plays it often. He would expect nothing less. He catches her lips again, groans into them when a sharp bite tugs, springs copper at his.

 “I don’t regret a thing.”


End file.
